


All the shards have made me hard

by comeoutcomeout



Category: X Factor (UK) RPF, X Factor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Firefighters, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, PWP, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeoutcomeout/pseuds/comeoutcomeout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick little Maiden firefighter!AU. Gratuitous misuse of a fire pole included, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the shards have made me hard

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: While the names and good-looks may be shared with real people, please understand that these are fictionalised characters. None of the events depicted herein have or will ever happen, The X Factor and Maiden belong to Syco and themselves, and I am not profiting from this. No harm or offence intended.
> 
> Warning for potty mouths and slurs/un-PC language, but that's firies for ya...
> 
> Title is from the song ‘Aftercrash’ by The Good Life.

It’s two in the morning and everyone’s stood down, and Matt really ought to be resting, but it’s been a busy rotation and he’s finding it just too hard to unwind tonight. So he’s lumbered out of his reclining chair and down into the dingy fluorescent-lit station office and surrounded himself with paperwork instead. As if it’s not enough to risk his life every day, to save stupid people and their stupid flats from stupid drunken fry-up kitchen fires...no, there’s always fucking paperwork.

He dangles his pen absent-mindedly over carbon triplicate forms, writes a few notes, ticks a few boxes...doodles a bit in the margins. Minutes pass like hours, until he blinks up and notices Aiden through the open office door, one arm high on the fire pole, circling slowly around it. Matt just watches for a while -- how the younger man’s broad shoulders stretch the standard issue navy t-shirt to a tantalising near-breaking point; how he thinks he can see the line of Aiden’s cock beneath light grey tracksuit bottoms, but it might just be a trick of the light.

Eventually Matt pushes his chair back from the desk, metal legs scraping on the concrete floor, and he walks to the doorway, watches Aiden come to a halt on his last pass and just hang at an open angle, outline and mop of hair backlit by the ambient light that spills in through the windows in the huge garage doors.  
“What are you _doing_?”  
Aiden thinks for a moment, and Matt swears he sees the kid’s eyelashes fucking flutter. “Twirling,” he finally decides, answering with a bit of a grin.  
Matt scoffs. “Faggot.” They’re mates, so it’s not as mean as it sounds.  
Aiden goes for another turn around the pole, and Matt watches the fingers of Aiden’s free hand twitch a little where they hang by his side, like he’s channelled all his usual nervous energy to the furthest point of his body, which somehow allows him to tart around like a stripper in their fire station now without thinking better of it.

He makes it back around to face Matt again. “What’re _you_ doing?”  
Matt indicates behind him with a thumb over his shoulder. “Paperwork. What else am I ever doing?”  
“Maybe if you didn’t drive like a dick...”  
“Watch it, Firefighter.” Matt tries to pull rank as best he can while he’s tired, half laughing, and he knows Aiden’s right anyway. The lights and the sirens and the speed and the free reign to break all the road rules -- it brings out the very finest in Matt’s inner 8-year-old.  
“Sorry, sir.” Aiden makes a valiant attempt at looking chastised, head dropped, but he’s licking his lips slowly so the sincerity’s a bit off.  
“Anyway, what was the last thing _you_ hit? Go on,” Matt goads.  
Aiden spins around the pole again and this time Matt stops him with a strong forearm to the stomach as Aiden swings by. Doubled over, Aiden finally admits, “Post-box, alright? Ow, you cunt! You know. You were there!”  
Matt grins. “Yeah, a big, red, _stationary_ fucking post-box. This isn’t GTA, y’know.”  
“It was icy!”  
“You were _on_ Ice, more like.” Matt rolls his eyes. “Did you get your 400 points, Grimshaw? No, you got a call-up to HQ in your dress blues.”  
Aiden stands upright now, towering over Matt unashamedly. Matt’s only getting shirty cos he’s a bit stressed; overworked and underpaid like they all are. Well, maybe there’s one other reason as well...

They look at each, just for a beat, and then Aiden opens his mouth and scrapes his tongue across a canine tooth. “I do look good in the suit, though,” he intones, low and lascivious, letting his hand slip suggestively down the pole, and he only gives Matt a second to ‘mmm’ at both the memory and the sight before he’s slamming the older man back into a row of metal lockers. Matt’s never felt so thrilled to be as small as he is, encased entirely by his subordinate’s wide stance and tanned arms braced either side of his head. “Go on, then, _officer in charge_ ,” Aiden breathes against Matt’s mouth, and Matt tries to kiss him, fuck he tries -- tries to bite those lips and keep hold, but Aiden doesn’t let him -- “tell me what I should do.”

Matt reaches fast inside Aiden’s tracksuit and grabs the cock that’s already starting to fill with hot blood, and he drags Aiden forward by it like it’s a leash and then he kisses him, and God he’s so soft -- both their faces shaved smooth to the Grooming Standard -- but he smells like he could slay dragons.

Their kiss is a battle, all teeth and tongues and the hint of copper, shoot first and ask questions later. Aiden’s the one to pull away, to groan into Matt’s hairline and then throw his weight back against the smaller man, and the lockers rattle and some piece of kit crashes off a shelf inside one. Matt’s eyes dart around, scoping for who they will have disturbed, but he forgets his concerns when he feels a steel-cooled fist wrap around his dick that’s burning up, and he gasps and thrusts forward into the youthful grip, and tries to find a rhythm for his own hand on Aiden.

“Matt,” Aiden moans, and he doesn’t get called by his first name a lot ‘round here, and certainly not in _that_ tone of voice, and it’s kind of bizarre, but Jesus Christ he could get used to it. He seizes the chance to catch the kid off guard, steps and backs him up against the pole, and he watches as Aiden’s free arm goes immediately above his head and snakes around the polished silver to steady himself. Matt slows down his pumping, and Aiden seems to speed up to compensate, and Matt’s eyes roll back a little, but he catches the way Aiden’s hand slides slowly down the pole and the way he presses the curve of his neck against the cold steel to cool the sweat, and Matt gets the distinct feeling none of this is really happening at all.

It’s all faintly ridiculous, isn’t it? Although _Aiden’s_ bloody ridiculous, with his quiff and his scarves; surely the most 'ginger beer' guy to ever make it past trainee. But there’s no one Matt would rather have watching his six in a smoke-filled stairwell. Scanning for that curl of air that whispers 'backdraft' and tells them to high-tail it out of there. Even if he drives like a retard. He’s a good guy.

Ohh, and he’s good.

There’s a flick of the wrist that makes Matt shiver, and another that weakens his knees as Aiden pushes them back to the lockers again. In a moment of stillness, Matt's sure he hears the teletype machine whirr into life in the office beside them, and he knows at this hour it's only ever going to be Control, sending through an incident message... They're about to get mobilised.

Yes, they have two options, but Matt's quick to decide that going to a shout with blue-balls is stupid even for them, so he stares up at Aiden and says “harder,” and Aiden says “faster” a split second later and then smiles wickedly at the thought of them both arriving at the same conclusion. Matt obliges, pumps faster up and down Aiden's thick cock, fists his other hand first in fluffy brown hair, and then in the cotton of t-shirt, which he thinks he hears rip. He holds on like it's a goddamn lion's tooth.

Aiden bucks into Matt's palm, and grips Matt's dick tighter, and dips his head to bite the top of Matt's ear. Matt only hears breathing, so heavy, feels it so hot, and he inhales the scent of sweat pooling on Aiden's clavicle. They both groan; someone swears. Aiden kisses Matt again and slams a fist against a locker.

And then he draws back, ever-so-slightly, and just looks at Matt. They read each other like they always do, though seldom this face-to-face, a hair's breadth apart. Aiden's eyes are so dark Matt's not sure there's any iris left at all.  
“C-ca--,” the younger man stutters, “Cardle, fuck!” Then he runs his thumb over the head of Matt's cock and Matt lurches and they both come, both shuddering, and there are bells going off all over the station house now -- the call to move out -- and fuck Matt wishes he could've _heard_ this kid come, whatever growl or whimper he might have made, Jesus fuck.

Aiden's mouth hangs wide open as he leans a shoulder against the lockers, catching breath in huge gulps, and he wipes his hand on his trackies and Matt smirks, reaching over to do the same.  
“Nice,” Aiden drawls, part insult, part complement, but Matt's already got his own locker open, a consummate professional, paying no attention as he steps into overalls.

The commotion descends on them and everything's a flurry of blue and reflective yellow and Aiden joins in, vaguely dazed but acting by rote. He's got one fireboot on and one foot just in a sock when Matt leans out the front passenger window of their engine and yells across the windscreen, “Grimshaw, get on this appliance right now or...” He trails off, not exactly keen to finish the sentence with 'or I'll discipline your ass,' because he recognises there's some ambiguity in the meaning of the threat. Aiden has the audacity to look sheepish, standing there in the bay with a shoe in his hand.

“Rookie, let's go,” someone else bellows, and Aiden swipes the printout from the teletype on his way past and hauls himself into the back behind Matt.  
“We're good, Guv,” Aiden offers to whoever's listening as he slams his door.

They roll out across the station yard and Aiden kicks Matt's seat petulantly as he passes the incident message forward. They share a private smile between them, the rest of the crew looking slightly warily on, and Matt flicks the switch for the obnoxious two-tone horn -- even though it’s 3am and the roads will be clear -- just because he can.

**Author's Note:**

> It's nice to see the hitcount go up, but please please also consider leaving a comment or kudos...? Warm my heart :) Concrit also welcome.


End file.
